


don’t forget the broken

by CosmeerSpots



Series: Wondrous Wanders [6]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: ANYWAY MAIN STAR OF THE AU FINALLY APPEARS, Angst, Brutality, Fights, Gore, Wondrous Wanders AU, its not pretty so I guess, the second chapter is gon be a bit more wild as in world building and stuff, wishing for death // Idk how to tag it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24235615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmeerSpots/pseuds/CosmeerSpots
Summary: Ghost can hear something skittering in the darks of Ancient Basin. They dont pay it too much mind, though. They have places to be, after all.That is, until they find a corpse with head broken open. Then the skittering becomes a promise of great threat and even greater challenge.
Series: Wondrous Wanders [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681615
Comments: 29
Kudos: 111





	1. slash my chest open

This should be the last area to explore. So says Ghost’s map, at least.

They told themselves that they'll explore the Ancient Basin in one go. They already helped out Cloth, inspired her to keep being strong, unmovable like a mountain, to be brave even in the face of all the horrors of Hallownest. They were proud to be of such help. They like Cloth a lot. And she does them, if the tight hug she gave them meant anything.

In their chest, in a pocket of void where they store valuable items with no imminent use, rests a wanderer’s journal, a simple key and a Pale Ore. This is the first one they've found. Unfortunately, that is. It feels like their trusty nail should have gotten an upgrade long ago. Ever since the Nailsmith told them about the rare metal, they've been searching for it like Bellflies for their next target. They'll go and let their nail be recreated after they finish this area.

The Ancient Basin, in their opinion, is one of the worst places they've visited so far. Even worse than the Waterways. Spikes are _everywhere._ Especially on places where they don't see them coming. Their cloak became quite torn as a result. They'll have to repair it after this. And there’s so many places just out of reach. They've tried everything, but nothing worked! The flora is almost nonexistent, too, and what actually grows here is dark and looks dead. The feral bugs are no better, either.

The screams of different Mawleks will probably never leave their mind. One here, other there, that one somehow got stuck in the ceiling. _How_ did it get there, they tried to explain and find a reason, but they just couldn’t come up with anything. It gave no sense. Absolutely none. The Mawlurks don't have legs as far as they can tell, so for now they'll call it magic.

The Shadow Creepers are nowhere near threatening, but Ghost won't lie to themselves. They've run into them far too much. That's why they kill every single one they see, in worry that if they'll have to turn around quickly, it will end up in their face. They also really need the soul. The infection burning into their carapace, finding its way into the cuts and cracks in their shell, hurts so much. So they focus and heal themselves as soon as they are sure that it’s safe. They still have some left for spells, too. That's good. That's great.

Ghost is pretty sure they just passed the last Mawlurk. The caverns have become much more narrow. Only thing they can hear is skittering of many small feet. Small orange bugs run away from them as fast as they can manage, to escape the point of their nail. They kill a few, if only to just learn something about these creatures that look so much like the Lifeseeds. Except orange. So infected Lifeseeds, then?

They put down their lantern and turn to a new page in their journal, right after the Brooding Mawlek, prode the corpse of the little bug a bit before sketching out its likeness on the paper. The journal is something they are quite proud of. Drawing, that always came to them naturally, for some reason. Numerous times have they spend evenings doodling creatures of various wonders or perhaps fantasies in books and on the back of their maps. Rarely have they colored anything, since ink and pen was their most trusted tools, always kept on their person.

Above the sketch, they write, as nicely as they can. ’Lightseed. A single-celled organism, completely infected. Scurries about simple-mindedly. Does not pose threat. Does not release soul.’ The pen lifts as they think. Under the sketch, in small letters, they add. ’Infection given the ability to move? Infected Lifeseeds?’ All questions they wish to find a definitive answer to, because curiosity is something that they are for sure full of.

Ghost closes the book and puts it back into their chest. They unhook the Mantis claw hanging off of their belt, pick up the Lumafly lanter and tap at the glass few times to awake the little bug. It buzzes to life and starts flying around again. That makes them, at least on the inside, smile. The Lumafly kind of grew on them. Which, maybe, isn't that much of a surprise, with how lonely they often get. The tiny thing has been with them for quite the time now, always offering its cold light. They even ended up naming it. Pompom, they decided. It seemed like the right fit.

After a stretch, with a huff of breath, they climb up and up, ignoring any other Lightseeds. They stop only after they hear a weird noise above them. Kind of like a breeze, but more breathy. It keeps whistling, not unlike the wind in Dirtmouth, except much more softly. Still, their nail finds its way into their hand and they whip around, standing in battle ready pose.

Turns out, it’s a bag of flying infection. Wiggling weirdly as if trying to swim in the air, towards them. It takes only few quick hits for it to die. Another one appears, another one dies. The bodies disappear before they can hit the floor. With the thin membrane holding them together gone, there’s no reason for them to exist anymore. Ghost will have to draw out of memory. Mild annoyance at best.

The sketch is done quickly. There’s nothing to draw with those things. No legs, no arms, just a blob of a body and a small protruding something that pains them to call an antenna. They give it a little silly face, though. To make the page more interesting at least a bit. The name… Hm… Infected Balloon. Let’s go with that. The description… “Single cell of infection. Has a simple mind and can float using internal gasses. Air most likely becomes trapped within the body upon formation. Heat of the infection keeps it afloat.” That will do well. Done.

They resume their climb, they knock down the weak wall they spot when they reach the top. Shortcuts are always welcomed and they've learned to open them first before continuing their explorations. Oh, how many times they had to take the long route just because they forgot to kick some wall a bit. They don't even want to think about that.

They turn around, their back to the exit. Better to keep exploring.

Everything seems so eerily quiet in this part of the Ancient Basin. Ghost takes out the map again. Of course, it’s not updated yet. They need a safe place to better focus on their lines. Those have to be precise. They place their hand on the Wayward Compass charm, listen to its endless whispers about locations. Here. You are right here. See?, it says. They see their mask on the paper, slowly moving at the same time as they. Magic of ancient knowledge, they suppose.

Their hand brushes over the other two charms. Soul Catcher and Mark of Pride. Two of their best combat charms in their collection, so far. The sign of the Mantises’ trust is what they are the most, well, proud of. The Mantis Village might be one of their most favorite places, now. Without its residents trying to chop their horns off, it became a place of respite. Playing with the young mantises was a lot of fun too, they have to admit. They should come back some time.

They fold the map and put it away again. It told them everything it knows. No more use to have it out. They look in front of themselves and _freeze._

_Gods. Right there._

So familiar looking corpse rests _right there._ Ghost hasn't seen one of those in so so long. They honestly wished they'd never see one again.

They look around. They are in some sort of room. Full of infection pulsing all around them ominously. Gods and they didn't notice anything as focused on their map as they were. How stupid beginner mistake is that? Oh gods. Even the air is tinted orange.

Slowly, Ghost shuffles over to the corpse. They should inspect it before leaving.

They sit down in front of the dead body and tilt their head at it as if the bug would wake up and tell them about their life. They are like them. Or used to be like them. Same species, same creation of a god. Just thanks to the mask, they can tell. And, no matter how long they've been rotting here, the chitin that is left of their body is still the same shade as theirs. They are quite bigger. Larger than any of their kind they've seen until now. Well, maybe except the Hollow Knight, but they haven't officially met yet. It is quite possible the statue in the centre of the City of Tears exaggerated their height, too.

Ghost looks to inspect the corpse’s head. Giant hole on the right side. Two horns, one long, the other not so much. From the shorter, a tag hangs. They don't dare to touch it at first. It feels too sacred to do that, but they still can read the symbols on it. “Don't… forget… broken…” and then a symbol that looks strikingly much like the badge thing Hornet wears on her shawl.

...Did she know them…? Is that her signature? Slowly, a hand rises. Slowly, they tap the tag, making it move, making it spin. They stare into two empty eyes as the thing shifts just so it could allow it. The emptiness is different so than theirs. Deadly empty. They shudder. It’s terrifying to stare into eyes that could easily be theirs.

They look down between them and the dead. Stare at stems that probably belonged to once beautiful flowers. The petals and leaves have long since turned into grey dust, of course, of course. The stems remain, though. They haven't seen any flowers in Ancient Basin. So someone mourned them. Someone brought a gift for the silence. It just makes them more curious, this place is so so deep, nobody would have ventured here for a random bug. They will have to figure out how to ask Hornet about this.

They eye a nail resting just a hand reach away from the body. Obviously, nobody has cared for it in a long time. It’s not shiny. It doesn't look like a weapon in middle of its glory days. But when they reach out and touch the edge, they can just feel how sharp it is despite the possible ages stretching between its last use and now. How strong. How durable. How _deadly._

The hilt is covered in red cloth. It’s faded and dusty, but still they can tell that once the shade of it resembled the color that they learned to associate with the Nailmasters. Have they known Mato? Or Sheo? Have they earned the same title as them? Just how many stories the soul of this body had? They all had to be so fascinating. They wish the corpse could tell them at least one.

Their cloak is tattered, thrown about. Mold is here and there and little bit on their neck guard. In one of the tears they can see soft glow of infection, pulsing with a heartbeat not belonging to the dead bug. They don't dare to lift the cloth to look if they died because of something else and not the bashed in skull. Ghost has seen their own share of gore and horrors, ever since day one. They don't feel anything about spilled hemolymph, about a head hanging off of a body just by few veins. It’s all normal to them by now. But they are so unwilling to see the same terror on one of their own.

So they stand up. They look to the exit and then the other way. That road is blocked off by bunch of pustules. They should try slashing at them at least once. Maybe there’s a secret?

They walk over, the blade of their nail meets the glowing orange. A gate made out of iron hits the floor behind them and they spin around to stare at it. The ground rumbles. Lightseeds- _so many of them-_ start skittering around. Why are they here? What do they want?

The questions receive their answers soon enough. The first Lightseed jumps and burrows itself into the head of the corpse. And…

No. No, no no no no!

Desperately, they dash forwards, nail slashing at as many little bugs as possible. Cleave that one in half, the other loses all of its legs and the next one will be beheaded. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat _faster. Faster. REPEAT IT FASTER, THEIR HEAD IS ALMOST FULL OF LIGHT-_

The Lightseeds stop, the broken vessel twitches. Ghost turns around and stares.

The broken head lolls backwards and then slowly forwards. Ghost’s shoulders tense, their nail is heavy in their hand, their stance becomes the one made for battle. They think about risking a bit and dashing in to quickly snatch the nail etched in the ground, so they wouldn't have to deal with it, but decide against it. They know that infection mad creatures don't need weapons to deal a lot of damage to their being.

The orange disgusting goo stains the vessel’s face, giving the impression that they are crying. Hell, they might as well be. The giant pustule now growing out of their head drips slowly. It weights their head even more forward, just so that Ghost can’t see either of their eyes anymore. The tag covers one of them, it spins ominously.

Their shoulders start to quiver and then two wings emerge on the right side. To say that Ghost is surprised is an understatement. The wings are torn here and there, but some of the infection moves to mend the holes. They are wet, they are orange tinted, they are revoltingly sloppy. Thicker tears fall from their eyes. It has to hurt so much. The pair on the left emerge a second later. This one is much more stained by the infection, slower to piece itself. Maybe a weak point?

Ghost doesn't get any time to think about it too much, as the supposedly dead body throws its head back and _screams._ They scream so loudly, so _painfully_ that it makes tremors run down Ghost’s back. Their hands came out from under the destroyed cloak, tense from agony, looking as if they want to clutch at their head.

The hands grab the nail in the next second instead, though.

Just barely Ghost manages to dodge the dash slash the other performs instantly. Their cape billows open, revealing just how utterly destroyed and dilapidated their form is. Chitin missing from both legs and arms. It had to rot away long ago. Black substance, so much like theirs, drips from the wounds, mixed with the Infection.

The other stumbles, almost falls down, before they catch themselves with their nail and somewhat lift themselves again. They turn around to gaze straight into Ghost’s eyes. The stare is so angry, so painful, so terrifying and intense, that it instills fear in their heart.

The wings flare out angrily and beat a few times, probably trying to scare them further by their size, before they charge again.

This time, Ghost opts to block the attack instead. The clank of metal on metal rings out in the silence of the Ancient Basin, first loud noise in this place in who knows how long. The dust sheds itself from the older blade in a grey cloud as they clash. And Ghost thinks, in the very second the corpse of the broken one starts pushing them down, that there really is no reason for someone who died maybe _decades_ ago to be this strong and this fast.

They do their best to push back, they even try to headbutt the other to make them stop. They just move away, though. Just as they are getting ready to duck away again, the pressure eases. The infected one’s body shakes and their wings start working. Before their wings beat and throw them away, Ghost can hear faint whispers in their mind. They can’t make out the words well, maybe only just one _“can’t”_. Can’t what? Can’t control their actions, most likely.

Ghost regains their footing again and dashes towards their opponent, jumping high with the nail ready. The blade of it buries deep in the foe’s left shoulder. Weak chitin breaks, warm void gushes out, they scream, glowing tears fall.

The nail leaves the body and Ghost spins before any counterattack can be done, the blunt side of the weapon meets the other’s head, making them stumble away.

Both of them stop to catch a breath. The fresh wounds and strains get somewhat healed by Soul and Light respectively.

The infected vessel moves first. They jump high and Ghost attempts to move out of their trajectory, but they guess it wrong. The much bigger, much heavier vessel ends up landing on their back, making them fall forwards and lose their breath for a good bit. Thankfully, instead of striking with nail, they leap away again, putting a fair amount of space between them.

They get up, they spin, they dash at the same time as their opponent. The metal clinks against metal, the metal stabs into voided flesh and stark while bone. Ghost is faster, the living corpse is stronger. The corpse’s dashes are longer, its nail is sharp even after ages. Ghost is more agile, their weapon is gleaming and newly reforged. The corpse even has something of internal battle going on. They might be in middle of a dash, weapon ready and then suddenly stumble to a clumsy stop,

It doesn't help Ghost to win, though.

The old blade sinks into their chest. Pierces right through. Embeds itself in the ground. Their void starts leaving them, slowly dripping on the dirty tiles. The broken one got them.

They grip the nail with their left hand and try to push it up, out of themselves, not just ready to give up on this one life. Of course, it doesn't work.

Darkness. Their darkness- their shade is slipping. They feel it so _much_ and they can’t describe it as pain, but it makes them _panic._ Their killer’s stare is vacant as Ghost’s consciousness starts leaving.

They register a hand moving towards their face and terror grips them. Please, don't let it be more hurt, _please._ They already have enough of that.

The hand is so soft and careful when it rests on their forehead. Last time someone touched them so nicely was in the capital city. With rain pattering on the surface of giant beautiful windows, warm, safe presence sitting next to them, patting them between their horns. Gods, how they want to go back there.

Slowly the touch travels to their cheek. A slurred, tired, low whisper slips into their mind.

_Nnnnnnnot…… Net-t….. Shhhhhh, little one…… Can’t…st….... Help……..? Kill… me……. I b-beg……. Sssssssssssorry..._

Fake night takes Ghost’s mind as their shade breaks free a second later after they process the words.

And they wake up a second later with a gasp for air, hands flying to where the nail impaled them, sitting on a bench near a pit of spikes. Empty feeling overwhelms them the next second. Right. Soul. Shade. It’s missing. They died. Again. _Hurts._ Gotta get it back.

Ghost gets off the bench and takes out the Crystal Heart. Just as they start to charge it their knees buckle and they fall flat on their face. ...They should probably take a second to catch their breath, shouldn’t they.

Back on the bench they go. To sit for a while, to collect their thoughts, to update their map, to shuffle through their charms and choose something that will actually help them in the fight. The symbol of the Mantises stays, for sure. Maybe the Defender’s Crest? Their opponent seems to like to get real close at times. Passive short range attacks wouldn't hurt. Grubsong? Grubsong. Yeah. Hmm… Let's go with Long Nail. More range to maybe even out-range the other? Their blade was quite long, after all.

With Charms replaced and new lines on the map dried, they feel ready to become whole again. And also for that second round.

The Crystal Heart is pressed close to their chest as they charge it and let it shoot them in perfect straight line across the pit. They stop before they can slam into the waiting spikes seemingly just growing out of the wall on the worst place possibly imaginable. Needless to say, they shoot them a nasty glare, well, whatever their mask lets them show, before jumping over them and running forwards. It shouldn't be that far, they can get there under five minutes, they bet.

Ghost stops in their tracks in the gateway into the room that became an arena to them just a bit ago. They silently watch as their shade, usually such violent thing, simply floats and _stares_ at the living corpse. It kinda looks like it’s studying them. The broken one seems to be doing the same, honestly.

They are slouched as one would expect from a dead body, but their head is tilted in such way that communicates curiosity. ...Have they never seen a shade before? Not even their own? Don't they remember having one?

The shade screams out in the tongue of void as it spots them. Both Ghost and the other seem to startle and cower, before their eyes meet. The shade flies towards them. The corpse shuffles into a corner with their void stained nail, shaking the whole way. As far from them as they can. ...That's not something Ghost expected to happen.

Dealing with the shade is easy. It comes naturally to them at this point. Slashing at their own very likeness doesn't faze them even a bit anymore.

The infected corpse is staring at them, both challenging them to try and come into the room again and begging them not to. Their nail is clicking softly against the ground, drawing their attention to the tip. Probably trying to distract them. Maybe trying to scare them off.

Ghost steps in, the gate falls. The opponent shudders, screams in so many agonies and, stumbling, unsure on their own rotting feet, charges forward.

They clash, they dance, they hit.

Wings flutter as the corpse jumps high. This time, Ghost knows what to expect, what to do. They dash away and then back when their feet meet the ground. Strike the right one. The one that works better. Tear it apart, chain them to the ground. Blade meets membrane made out of Soul and infection, another scream makes its way out of throat that never should have even murmured.

Distance is put between them again. Yes. Yes! They are doing it!

Infected Balloons suddenly start appearing in the arena. That is no problem, all Ghost has to do is hit them once. But that distracts them from the main problem. They only barely manage to side step from another of the other’s charges. They get ready to strike, make them pay for such advance on them. It’s too late to stop their hand when they register how the broken one changes their stance to defense.

The old nail is lifted up to protect the heavy head. They lean backwards as it absorbs the power of Ghost’s counterattack. And then they strike back, slashing at their neck, piercing through. There was nothing Ghost could do to stop them. They fall down to the ground. This time, the darkness is immediate.

Claws close around their neck as they jolt awake back at the bench. _Gods,_ that hurt. That _hurt._

Take deep breaths, it's okay. Your physical body is whole. No void is flowing, there’s no real pain biting at your chitin, those are just phantom sensations. It’s _fine. Calm down!_

They lean against the backrest of the bench and pull their knees into their chest. Calm down. Calm down. _Really._ You need to calm down, Ghost, they tell themselves.

Pulling their cloak around them firmly, they hug their legs close. Come on. You are safe here. Nobody will get you. Gather your wits, your power, your mind and heart. And then get up and go gather your void stained soul. Breath in, breath out. It’s alright.

…

Okay.

Okay, that will do. Get up now. Keep going. You can do it! You can beat the other! You are just _so close._ Maybe more damage? The range was great, it worked well, but perhaps the Mark of Pride will be enough. They switch the Defender’s Crest and Long Nail charms for the Fragile Strength. This attempt has to be the one. They _refuse_ to go and seek out Leg Eater before they beat this foe.

The Crystal Heart glows in their hands, the wind swishes around them as they fly forwards. And, for the third time, they run towards a room that should have been a tomb more than once for them by now.

Their shade waits for them in front of the room this time and, glancing into the chamber before engaging the fight with their soul, they can see the corpse back in the corner, shaking, trembling, trying to tend to their right torn apart wing. So they can’t heal it. That's good. The Infection is probably too heavy to act as an effective patch up.

Night returns to their body as the shade screeches in defeat as Ghost beats it up again.

They feel ready. They know what to expect, now. They can do this, they can win! So they step into the arena, feet tapping on the stone, shoulders squared, awaiting the scream that comes with every new start of a battle.

It comes and it echoes through the caverns and they charge again

Dodging their slashes is easier now. _Much_ easier. Sidestep, attack them when their back is turned to you, watch if their stance will change anytime now. At some point, Ghost figured that jumping and striking downwards is a great way to deal damage to that giant pustule growing out of the crack in their head. It seems like another weak spot as they always stumble when the thin orange membrane gets pierced.

They take a note of that and use it every time they manage to get above the opponent.

Sometimes, the foe holds themselves back. Randomly, they just stop. It gives Ghost enough time to dispatch any Infected Balloons, to heal or to deal more damage. Everytime they attack the corpse while they stand still, it feels, in a way, wrong. It’s like they are trying to help. As if the body is the enemy of the soul, the shade probably buried under the light, just as much as it is Ghost’s.

Sometimes, they buckle under the weight of their head. Often, Ghost thinks their neck will snap. Either a sickly crack will fill the air while they aren’t looking, or the fight will stop at the tip of their blade. The broken one won't get them this time. It’s going too well. They are doing too well to give up. And _they_ are bound to rocky tiles covered in dust, Infection and void, now.

It feels like a dance between equals. Maybe when they were alive, breathing and thinking for themselves, not having to fight their own body and dream coated mind, they were faster and more versatile with their offense moves. It probably wouldn't be that fair then. But they are dead and rotting and even if they are still in there somewhere, the Infection is the thing that drives them. Infection and ancient rage, they suppose.

The corpse manages to strike them only few times. Unlike Ghost, who keeps getting more and more hits on them. They manage to pierce the broken one twice, right through the stomach. Both times, Infection and little bit of void sprays out, each time some guts leave their body. It’s disgusting and it _stinks._ It makes them feel terrible. But it makes the other slower. It gives Ghost more time to react. And that is what both of them want, isn’t it? So Ghost decides not to feel regret when the edge of their blade slashes at rotting limbs. _This is what both of them want. This is what has to be done._

That isn't a lie. It’s true. All _three_ of them know. Ghost, the damned thing that should not have been awoken to mercilessly fight against their own kin and the god possessing them, forcing them into this.

They decide that this should end. It has been too long. The larger vessel is shaking, they are so so slow, they look more tired and destroyed than any _corpse_ has the right to. They should be asleep, they should rest, they should be free.

It’s time to grant them that freedom.

Both of them stare at each other from different sides of the room. Both nails are stained, both warriors injured. To different degrees, though. Ghost is mostly healed, they are fine. The broken one… They clutch at their abdomen, trying to prevent their insides from spilling out. Both of their wings are in tatters, looking sad, just being dragged on the ground as a cape or maybe another layer of cloak. Orange tears stream down their face endlessly. But, still, Ghost can hear faint weak whispers through the connection shared by voided beings.

The pleas haven't stopped once during the fights. During any out of the three, actually. Always, they request death. A blade in their head, through their chest. When they are close to each other, the murmurs are the strongest. And it hurts. It hurts to hear someone so desperately ask for eternal sleep.

Ghost adjusts their grip, hold their weapon with both of their hands as the corpse scrambles to somewhat stable position and taps their own nail against the ground.

One tap.

Their hands clutch the nail stronger.

Second tap.

They move the nail to their left side. The tension builds as they gather the power resting within them.

Third tap.

The dead kin leans forward, blind to what Ghost is doing.

Fourth tap and they lunge. Stained blade ready to deliver another blow at the end of it. Useless, wet and ripped wings trailing behind them just as their ragged cloak.

They come close.

The tension leaves Ghost’s body as they release all the strength in a wide destructive arc. Chitin, void and Infection splatters everywhere as the broken vessel’s chest receives all of it. The half of the tag that hung from their horn falls down on the ground.

Their innards lay exposed to the dusty sick world. They stumble backwards, so deeply wounded… They can’t hold themselves up.

Ghost catches the hem of their cloak, positions the tip of their nail right towards the rotting voided heart. Their hand jerks and the corpse falls forward, impaling themselves thanks to their own weight. Ghost lowers slowly as the body sinks lower and lower, until they finally, _finally,_ stop resisting. Stop trying to fight back.

They stare into the kin’s eyes. What a horror their gaze is, even now. The Lightseeds in their head divide, some climb out and scatter away, some falling from their eyeholes. In a small fit of reflexive panic at having the bugs fall into their face, Ghost backs up and pulls out their weapon. Without them to support the corpse, it collapses to the ground.

Shaking their head to get rid of any Lightseeds that might have tried to cling to their mask, Ghost sighs, relieved, and looks to where the body of their opponent has to lie.

And they are met with something they didn't expect. They thought they'd see the body still, finally dead, finally resting. Instead they are met with picture of a kin reaching for them, hand shaky, rotting, _destroyed._

They dash forwards to catch it. To hold them.

Of course, they aren’t fast enough.

The body falls limp. Unmoving. No sign of life. The only thing moving is the void and Infection flowing out of the giant gash.

Still, Ghost sits in front of them. Silent, as always. They never had a voice, never found a sound within themselves except the noises of their mind. It’s quiet there, too, now. And as the adrenaline, or whatever a being like them has in its place, wears out, their shoulders sink.

They made it. Won over another foe. But as they reach for the half of the cut tag resting on the ground near the body, it doesn't feel so grand. They brush a claw tip over it, stare at it for longer than they probably should and then hide it away in their chest. They have to ask Hornet about this when they meet her next time.

Slowly, they get up. Carefully, they help the dead one to sit, to lean against the stone where they first found them, head resting on the surface of it, looking as if sleeping. Softly, they smooth out their wings, make them comfortable. If they were alive, they would probably like having them spread so freely. And delicately, Ghost pulls the cloak around them, as if trying to make sure they wouldn't be cold, but really, just hiding what they have done.

With a final bow, they turn to the newly opened passageway.

Tap tap, on their feet they travel away from the place of another regret, to see if this whole thing was even worth it in the end.


	2. golden strings

Their footsteps are the only sound echoing in these corridors.

Well, that and the endless wind that seems to be coming out of nowhere. That's been present even before the fight, however, so they don't really count it.

One foot in front of the other, keep going. One step, two, then three, four, five, six. Stop. A drop. Quite deep one, at that, too. They look further and see three in total. It doesn't look like they'll be able to climb back up with the Mantis Claw. So Ghost stands there, for a good while, trying to decide if the risk of getting trapped is worth it.

Going back would mean facing the now finally still body again. They don't think that the guilt of coming back empty handed would evade them. They could go away and come back with some rope, though. Maybe that would help? Maybe that is the right answer to this situation?

Still, something is calling them to continue forwards. Maybe it's the whistle of the wind, maybe it's the cruel Light, maybe it's something else. Ghost doesn't know what to think. But the emptiness urges them. _Come on, come closer, keep going, you have to keep going._

So they relent and jump. They are pretty sure that even if they'd get trapped, they'd figure something out. After all, they've been in worse terrain centered troubles before, this is going to be fine.

Second drop, third drop, short hallway in front of them. Okay. The wind is still the only thing they can hear. No weird gurgling, no roaring, no _skittering._ Weird, but welcomed. Still, they clutch their nail just a little more. They don't like this. They _hate_ this quite a lot, actually.

They walk down the short corridor and look up. Mmm. They put their nail away, on their back, even though they hate not having its weight in their hands and pull out the Mantis Claw. It’s too light to offer the same comfort as their weapon. But yes, they can use it in self-defense. The claw has already earned few kills. Panic can do a lot and anything can become a worthy weapon in skilled hands, they suppose.

Scaling a wall with it is a second nature to them at this point. They've had it for so long that it isn't surprising at all. Cling to wall with own claws and use the one of an unnamed Mantis to pull themself higher. Easy. Efficient. _Quicker_ than any other climbs they've had to do in their life before. Even the one in the dark which-

Ghost pulls themself up on the ledge and scans the surroundings. Nothing. No sound, but maybe just a soft whistle. No living thing. They look forward. Ah. _Some_ living things. But small, softly glowing as if made out of soul. Not threatening. They aren’t Lumaflies, but look similar enough to calm them down.

The tiny things flutter around something. It shines too bright for them to see what it actually is. Something important, they guess. If the giant statue near it means anything.

It’s nothing too big. Nothing like the one in the City’s square. The main part is, maybe, just three times taller than they. And it is in shape of the Hallownest Seals.

Hmm…

They've heard of this place, the Ancient Basin, to be rumoured where the King once lived, once spoke his rule of these lands. Maybe the shining something belonged to him, once.

They come closer, stand underneath it. The glowing bugs stay where they are, until, that is, they jump up to snatch the shine.

Something holds them up in the air and the bugs rush into them, under their cape, to their back, into their darkness. It’s a weird feeling, but it doesn't hurt. Thankfully. They aren’t ready to bear another pain just yet.

Light burst from between their shoulder blades, it lifts their cloak and solidifies. _Something_ just happened that made them _grow_ something. Kind of unsettling, to be honest.

Ghost falls to the ground, lands on their feet and braces themself with their right hand against the solid rock. What just-

They lift the cloth of the Mothwing cloak up and just stare dumbfounded. Wings. Those are softly glowing wings. _Six_ of them, too, what the hell. H-how does one- _Six???? Why six???????_ Never in their life have they seen a bug with six goddamned wings and _they_ are the first one they get to meet? What is this. Why is this. What is Hallownest.

They let the cloak fall back over them and put their hand on their face where their mouth should be hiding. Fine, alright. Impulse decisions, that is still something they have to work on controlling, they guess.

Slowly, they stand up. The membranes feel so weird against them. It’s like having a cape under a cloak, except the cape has nerves and they can very well feel both it and _through_ it. They try to move the wings and they _do._ What, by all the gods they've heard about on their journeys, are they supposed to do with this.

_Fly,_ obviously. And, right, that's what wings are for after all, aren’t they. Isn't flying difficult to learn, though? They don't have a teacher. They can’t exactly _find_ one, too, everything is infected in this kingdom. They don't even have the voice nor the will to communicate something like that to someone.

They should at least wait until they get back to Dirtmouth to try and actually take off. Ceilings seem like kind of a threat right now.

The wind stopped when they took the wings, they just now realize. Now it’s _truly_ quiet. It’s really unnerving, to say the least. Hallownest isn't silent. It just isn't. ...they better be on their way, now. They've explored everything already, anyway, nothing should be left to see on this side of the Ancient Basin.

They jump down and walk through the short corridor, then stop dead in their tracks, staring at the three ledges in front of them. Oh. _Oh alright. They see._

New wings emerge from underneath their cloak, awkward and graceless at best. Up and down they beat against the air, each side differently from the other. It feels _so_ weird and _wrong._ Ghost has no idea what they are doing. Guess they should just try to flap real fast and strong? Probably. Maybe. Possibly. Sounds like the best plan they will come up with.

They back off, further into the tunnel until they feel a wall behind them with their wingtips. They jerk away from the surface, entirely on instinct. What a stupid thing to get scared by. A _wall._ Whatever. They crouch down and get ready to sprint.

Never will they admit how nervous they are about this entire thing. They can feel the wings trembling like leaves during hurricane, reacting to their emotions. The air swishes pass them as they run, picking up speed. Feet leave the ground as they leap high. And _then_ they flap too soon.

Ghost scrambles to sink their claws into the stone of the first ledge. They try. They try hard, but their clawtips aren’t sharp enough to be good support. They fall down, right on their back. The air out of their pseudo lungs gets knocked out and they have to take a moment to catch their breath again.

Heavens, alright, that _could've_ gone worse. But also better…

They sit up and glare at the ledge. Then at their twitching wings. Maybe they could try it without the whole running thing? Would that make it easier? Hopefully or else they are stuck in here for another good while.

Wings flutter as they rearrange them so they wouldn't feel so wrong.

Once again, they rise up. Once again, they crouch. They jump as high as they can and at the apex of it they flap once with all the power they have in the wings. It sends them right over the platform and they are about to land when they get a brilliant, _stupid_ idea: flap again to get to the second platform.

The wings spread unevenly and so ends up their second, _weak,_ flap too. They veer slightly to the right, lose any semblance of balance they had before and topple straight down. With a crash, their face meets the floor of the first platform and _ouch._

The pain isn't enough to make them cry, they've felt worse things, but it for sure makes them wince.

At least they've learned something from that. Flap only once per jump or else they'll end up on their face again and honestly, that doesn't sound as alluring as one would possibly think. They'll have to work on the actual flying thing and use the wings only as a boost for now. That's alright with them, they are sure that will be enough to get to places.

The other two jumps come much easier. Their landing still needs work, definitely, but at least they can get from point A to point B somewhat reliably. That's a win in their book. For now they'll just ignore this whole thing, especially during battles. They really don't trust themself with not ramming into an enemy.

Ghost looks behind themself and puts their hands on their hips, proud of their work. They got out! They used new ability quite well! They've learned something new!

Kind of.

Folding their wings away feels unnatural. It takes a bit until they finally manage to hide them so it doesn't bother them. They'll have to learn that, too, huh? How to reclaim their comfort in their own body again. Again and again, but this isn't the first time. A lot of things aren’t their first time. It’s okay.

With a sigh, with their shoulders slumping down they turn around and walk away.

Ghost enters the arena again. They turn their gaze away, cover their eyes with hands and cloak. They don't want to see the kin. They don't. Their regret is too strong.

Tap tap, their feet ring against the stone.

_Thump... thump... thump...,_ beats an _undead_ _heart._ ** _Not theirs._**

No no no no no. That CANNOT be. NO. They are supposed to be _resting! Sleeping!!_

Their hands fall from their face and they whip around, staring, utterly horrified, at the corpse.

It’s still sitting in the same position they've left it in. Innocently, with some leftover Infection mingled with void streaming down from its empty eye sockets, as if nothing disturbing is happening to it.

They don't want to come closer. Their body doesn't want to, their _shade_ doesn't want to. Still, they will their muscles to move. Still, shakily, they come in front of it and collapse on their knees. No, no no no. Why is this… Why can’t they rest…?

The broken one had _plead_ for death. They've wished to enter slumber and it _hurt_ to tear their chest open and stab through their heart. Has it been for nought?? Are they still here? Are they still watching, feeling, breathing in their own mind?

The corpse’s wings twitch as if they were connected to something living and suddenly Ghost can’t breath. Their throat closes, their hands shake as they put them around their neck to try and find air again. Their eyes that aren’t really there cry and their heart aches perhaps more than the dead one’s. Their new wings burn at the roots and then freeze as they finally gulp down a piece of wind. The corpse inhales along with them.

Oh what did the world do. What has She done to you. They ask in their mind the silence, because no one else is there. No one else is listening, only the breathing corpse with beating heart with no voice or mind of its own.

Carefully, they lift the other’s cloak up and they stare into the open chest, into the injury they've made to free them. The heart beats, steady. Slow, but too fast at the same time. Darker than starless midnights and with shining gold of Light decorating the insides of their veins. The broken one lives, but they are dead. They breath and they dream, but they are dead. They rot and waste away like the deceased do, but they are alive.

What a _cruel_ _torture-_

It makes Ghost tremble. It makes them hurt, because how can someone do such thing. How can someone force any other to live and suffer through the process of dying and death, continuously, without a stop in sight, without a rest in the middle.

And they are dreaming, if the ethereal catchers surrounding them don't lie.

What do you dream of, what are you hoping for? Ghost asks them as they feel the Dream nail awaken at their side. It wishes to gather the warmth of the other’s mind. To set them free from the merciless claws of a Goddess. Ghost agrees with it. Ghost caresses it. Ghost takes it off and backs off from the dead and slashes at them with soft violet light.

And this is the first time they've done such thing. Never before have they _entered_ someone's slumber, only read through it. But now they find themself lying on a cold but warm rock suspended in the unreal air by nothing. Maybe it’s a will that holds them all afloat. Maybe the clouds are just like a sea, in this dimension, and they are swimming amongst them in the boats made of stone decorated by streetlights and metal fences.

Who knows? Who cares. Surely, not them.

Their head hurts. So they cling to their own forehead and sit up and look around. The sky is orange, just like the Infection. Just like sunrise. That does not surprise them. Somewhere far above, the sky turns grey. Almost silver. Almost white. Somewhere further, it turns purple. How fancy, how regal. It has to be someone's dream in the City of Tears, they guess.

That is not their main concern now. They have to- they have to _help-_

So they take a peek over the rock they've found themself on. They stare into the endlessness of the imagined skies and slightly jump as a platform appears in front of them. Right. Right- this is what happens in this place. Of course. They forgot, but then again, it has happened to them only one time before.

With a deep inhale, Ghost stands. With a deep exhale, they jump on the smaller stone.

Another appears, another few actually. So they hop along. One appears here next just a bit further. They lay out a path made out of fantasies to them, lead them to two bigger, permanent platforms, before ending at a room. One and the same as the place their physical body has to be sleeping tight right now.

How curious, they think, as they pop a pustule full of Infection. It changes into dream particles, it lifts off, slightly greying for a second before it disappears.

They look into the arena. Exactly the same they've battled just a bit ago in. For their life, for their darkness, for their progress. And the other stands there.

Their head is full of Light already. They are still so broken, even more so thanks to the real fight against Ghost they've had. Their limbs are shaking violently, tip of their blade rests against the stones of floor while they clutch at it. The heart in their open chest beats wildly.

The _one difference,_ one that oh so matters, are golden strings connected to them. They look like weaved from blazes, shining and glowing like noon’s sun. They are connected to rings which pierce through their wings, through their cape. One bigger rests around their neck and two smaller ones on their wrists. It makes Ghost sick.

The other’s gaze rises to meets Ghost’s. The tears streaming down their cheeks intensify as they shake their head from side to side, letting it fall limp a second later. _They can’t. They can’t anymore, they don't want to-_ Ghost realizes and their emotions attempt to drown them for it.

Oh what did the dreams do, to keep them awake while sleeping. Why can’t they do their job and just grant them rest? It’s cruel, it’s pitiless and it’s petrifying.

It hurts when they take out their nail. The weight of it is so _colossal_ and they _hate it._

They dash into the room. The lost kin screams as the ring around their neck tightens. The two nails glint and the two nails sing as they meet once again, this time in completely different dimension.

The broken one is _faster,_ now. So much more merciless in their swings and Ghost realizes that they aren’t holding back anymore.

They are going all in!, Ghost shouts in their own lonely thoughts as they just barely dodge a vertical slash. Why? Why why why??? Is it so, because they are both in Her domain? Or is the foe just so so tired that they want them gone already?

_No, that can’t be-!_

Something crashes into Ghost’s back. Right into the roots of new wings and it _burns_ through their cloak and it _burns_ into their chitin and it is _scorching and hurting them so badly._ Where did it-!

Nail pierces through their abdomen and they believe that if voice was something that'd belong to them, they'd scream loudly enough for the real world to hear. They can’t make their arms move to try and stop it, even when it starts traveling upwards, _still in them- slowly cutting them in half._

Their mask falls in half, clinks against the floor once and they wake up, gasping for air they don't really need.

What even was that??? Where did it come from- w- _Gods,_ their chest hurts. Okay. Okay, timeout, at least for a second, calm down. Deep breaths. The stones are real under you, unlike the pain. Pinch yourself if you don't believe it, but it’s true. Everything is alright.

...Infected balloons. Right. That's what probably hit them in the back. Ghost didn't expect for those to appear so soon. Well…

They look back to the corpse. The dream wisps still dance around the other’s head, taunting them, laughing at them, challenging them. This time, Ghost will know what to expect.

The Dream nail shines bright in their claws as they charge it and slash it through the broken vessel’s body, so much more determined to win.

The stones appear, make the same pathway for them. They descend back into the arena, clutching at their nail tighter than before. They will be victorious, so the other can sleep.

With a step in, the fight begins with the same shout as ever. It rattles in their head and disorganizes their thoughts. Weapons clash again and this time, they twirl and jump over the foe in time to dodge an infected balloon. Spinning around to cut it in half.

Orange keeps coming, flowing into the arena in the form of faceless little blimps, trying to scorch away their chitin while the broken vessel keeps dashing and clashing against them.

Despite the tears in their wings, they still use them. Still boost their backsteps, still flare them threateningly, still flap them to make dust rise and the Infection fly. Their pace just doesn't seem to slow. And that's what gets Ghost again.

Nail point against their forehead, back against the wall, their own wings quivering and brushing against the stone uncomfortably. Their nail fell from their hand with a clank just a bit ago and they haven't managed to reach it before the lost kin had them pinned against the wall, clutching at their neck.

The balloons are closing in, rotten claws press their throat tight, the old metal enters their head through the bone of their mask. They don't get to cry.

Ghost wakes up again and rolls on their side, clinging at their head. It hurts, even if it’s not real, it _hurts._

They dare to take a moment to gather themself, before they attack the corpse with the Dream nail again.

…

This isn't going well.

Decidedly, and quite frankly, it’s going to _shit._

The amount of attempts just keeps growing.

Strike the corpse with fantasy’s light- die. The dusty nail cut off both of their hands and they could protect themself no longer.

Strike the corpse with light- die. They got to see their guts spilling out of their stomach before they died and lived again.

Strike the corpse with light- die. Somehow, they managed to blind Ghost in both of their eyes. Somehow, they felt their mask melt away before they passed. The balloons probably painted their whole head with burning liquid sunshines.

Strike the corpse with light- die. The other slashed at their back so many times, that it could no longer support the weight of their torso and head. They broke in half like a blade of grass.

Strike the corpse with light- die. Strike the corpse with light- die. _Strike the corpse with light- die._ **_Strike the corpse with-_ **

Half of an hour passes, one whole next. Then the second, then the third, fourth and fifth. Five hours filled with different extents of progress, five hours filled with dread and pain and suffering and _death._

One second they lie in the coldness of the real world, the other they are sailing in the dreams again. One moment they are standing in the gate, staring down their undead kin, the next they are either kneeling in front of the other or hanging off from their blade, torso pierced through and through.

Ghost even managed to cling to their back, between the four wings, once. They answered that with impaling _themself_ so they'd kill Ghost again. And yes, it is the doing of the angry Goddess, they know, but it’s still so hard to _process, anyway._

They've been at this for too long, their mind is too tired from all the attempts, too torn and in too much suffering. And honestly, the cold dusty floor of the real arena- they _think_ this is the real one, their grasp on reality has slightly warped it seems, they need but just a _moment-_ isn't as comfortable of a resting spot as previously thought. Their whole body aches, their whole body is plagued by fatigue.

And they should probably make an effort to work on a better tactic. They've managed to get further, back in the dream, they are sure, but they never can quite pull _through._ And with rules of life not working there- no injuries retain, not the broken one’s, not theirs- they always have to start from level zero.

A certain coldness settles in their chest, right where they store their items. _The pale ore._

Ghost stares at their reflection peeping at the world from the blunt side of their nail. Of course! They'll hurry up into the city to the nailsmith and he will reforge their nail to become even mightier weapon! Of _course!!!_

Their shoulders perk up and they scramble to stand, giddy about finding a possible solution to their problem enough that they ignore their pains. They put their right hand on their chest, right where their heart rests and then bow to the fallen kin, promising to be back soon, before running off.

The way into the City of Tears is a long one, even with wings resting on their back and crystal heart of an ancient automaton hidden away in their nothingness. They better not dally. They need to help a stranger out of mind’s prison, after all.

* * *

Geo rattles in their hands and chest. They've been anxiously counting over and over through their collection of it ever since they've entered the city. Will they have enough to afford the reforging...?

The journey from and through the Ancient Basin and the Royal Waterways to the City might have taken them few hours. The climb through the destroyed elevator shaft left them panting and torn in places. They haven't gone through there yet and so their ascend turned into torture. They've tried real hard to not let some age-old ancient memories resurface while their claws sunk into the wood of the platforms, bleeding night from the spikes they didn't manage to see in time, but still, sometimes they froze as a stark white head with horns that wasn’t actually there fell right in front of them.

Their arms, abdomen and legs aren’t any better on it than their hands. Their mask is heavy and stained by darkness that keeps escaping through the cracks. There hadn't been a single sign of the infected bugs from which they normally take soul to heal from, so they couldn’t.

But that's alright.

Because the weeping of the city will wash away their mistakes and it will lie to them about being sinless until they'll leave again. The water is cold, it weighs their cloak down until their shoulders slump, too tired to hold themself upright anymore. The raindrops beat against sidewalks, street lamps, clear glass of windows and armor of the undead. It distracts them, but it makes them focus, too. It’s like being trapped under a waterfall of stimuli and they can’t control anything.

And, what’s the worst, it makes them _feel._ It makes them feel powerless. It makes them feel useless. It makes them feel unstoppable, yet melancholic.

...Hmm, maybe they should visit Lemm and sell him some of the treasures and knicknacks they've found while traveling the kingdom. They've counted only and just something over five hundred geo. They doubt that's going to be enough.

But that's fine, too.

Because there’s Hallownest Seals clinking against few journals that aren’t theirs and one idol of the lost king. That should be enough. That should make them have enough.

The walk to the relic seeker’s house is eventful, but not interestingly so. It’s just the dead higher class, either running away from them or swiping blunt claws in their direction. All that Ghost has to do is just jump over them and shank them from the back. One and two and three and maybe four strikes and they fall. Easier than breathing in light fresh breeze.

But when they leave the once perhaps rich part of the city, that's when things get somewhat interesting.

Memorial planted in middle of a fountain stands and watches. The Hollow Knight, if you'd want to call them such, is set here in stone, forever cursed to look over what they should've protected. Ghost looks with them, for a bit. Over the streets that still sing of long lost voices. Of welcoming cacophony so belonging to large cities. Maybe a grub cries out here and there, even, they can _just_ imagine it.

The city stands tall. The city stands proud, endless, strong. And the city stands quiet, lonely, without a single peep of someone who could tell its story. It feels overwhelming to go from fake memories of life to such silence.

Ghost has to sit for a while, it’s just too much. The edge of the fountain’s pool will do well.

Rain falls into their black as midnight eyes. It doesn't hurt. The water doesn't hurt them, at least not this time. They try to squint- can they even squint? Do they have something to squint with??- They do their best to pretend that they are squinting as they look up and up and up, searching for the ceiling that has failed its purpose of keeping the cavern dry.

They can’t help but wonder. Why? Why did it fail?

Their best guess might be love. Because love is usually behind everything. It hides behind hate, it hides behind hugs and kisses that they've never really felt. Love hides behind hands, behind faces and under flesh. So why shouldn’t it hide behind tears of something as great as a giant lake?

Mmh… But what do they know.

Their gaze slips to the carved out likeness of the one they are trying so desperately to save. And they ask the statue, as innocently as someone without anything to be selfish over, only hoping for an answer can, Did you shatter, too, just like the roof?

The stone stays silent. Because why should it speak up?

Were you an umbrella for someone, as well? Did you held off the rains of something? What of? Sadness, suffering, anger or the Light that seems to course through everyone's heads?

It doesn't answer. Maybe it doesn't know, too. Maybe the riddles are too hard. So the little not-bug decides to talk to it differently. Tell it a secret, so it can be proud of knowing something, anything at all!

I'm going to save you, Ghost tells it seriously, as their shoulder relax and then tense again. I… don't really know who you are, who you were or who you will be when I’ll set you free- I don't doubt that, by the way! I'm sure you'll be free again!- But, well, uh, for all I know, I could've managed to imagine the call that rang through the wastelands some time ago.

Could they have just dreamt it?

It’s scary to consider that, so they don't think about it.

I've already gone so far. And I'm going to go further. Hornet- she wears crimson and wields a needle and flies in the air by the silk, do you know her?- Hornet says that there's something for me to witness, there’s something lurking in the ashes on the far far east that I have to claim victory over.

They stay silent for a little bit, before taking out the piece of tag from the corpse in the Basin. They turn it over in their hands, studying it, trying to figure out something- they aren’t sure what. Then they hold it up for the statue to see.

Do you think she wrote this? It hung from a horn of someone like me, someone like her, maybe someone like you, too. I'm…, they seem to remember. They should be on their way for a new nail, they shouldn’t linger in places, the broken one is still suffering oh so much.

Ghost stashes the tag back into the pocket of void in their chest, before hopping off of the edge. I'm… I'm trying to save them, too.

Without looking back, they walk away. They don't... usually do goodbyes. Usually, there’s no one to say goodbye to at all, actually. So why change now?

The walk to the relic keeper’s shop from the Fountain Square is not long at all. Just a few steps more, just a little hop over an open canal and then one ride in an elevator.

They do their best to dry their cloak.

A bell rings as they open the door.

“Aahh, it's you again. Of course it’s you.”

Of course it’s them, no one else is left. At least they think so, that nobody other visits the relic keeper.

“Well, come in, come in. Let me see what you bring forth this time, traveller.” Lemm grumbles as he sits behind his counter, making space on it, storing away one of the wanderer's journals that Ghost sold him before. He's been most likely trying to decipher the secrets of the dead carved in it.

Sometimes, Ghost wonders too, what the bugs of past wrote about?

The rain still weights their shoulders down, still probably makes them look like a depressed mosscreep, but no matter, no matter. They make their way to the counter, standing on the tips of their feet so they'd get to see what’s happening over it. One of their hands plunges into their chest- Lemm looks deliberately away, looking confused and sort of _really_ disgusted- to fish out the one King’s Idol they have. Carefully, they set it on the counter and nudge it towards the shopkeeper.

Lemm takes it, looks over the old thing and nods to himself. “A King’s Idol?” He asks, probably the air, because they can’t tell him anything. Still, they childishly nod, puffing their chest up just a bit. After all, they remember the other telling them how finely those were crafted, what they were used for, how there’s only few that could match the skill needed.

“If you look closely, each of these idols is subtly different.” Oh? ”There are fine engravings about them that take some time to decipher.” Oh… Is that why there’s one sitting right next to the cash register, looking pretty and regal? Has Lemm tried to decipher it? They tilt their head at the thing and the shopkeeper hides both of the Idols away as if Ghost would try to take them back.

“So far, I've found but just a bit about the words that hide their meanings in the stone.” He tells them, anyway, maybe because they are always so keen on listening to his findings. It has to be nice, to have an ear that hears, even if they won't ever speak back. “They tell of few visits of His Majesty. About how, every third full moon, the King would grant his presence to the bugs living in this very city. One or two of the Great Five Knights marching in His shadow. They speak of His light bathing them, elevating their thought.” The shopkeeper finishes, before humming, thinking for a while. “Hm.”

“I suspect each was tailored to the owner. A personalised symbol of the King's omnipotence.” Says Lemm as he slides eight hundred Geo to them before he rests his arms on the counter again. They snatch the Geo and hide it away in their nothingness, before pulling out two Seals.

The relic seeker seems only somewhat happy about that, about more things to keep in safety of his shop, about more things to study, translate and hopefully understand.

“Hallownest’s Seals, eh? Give it here.” He takes the things from their hands, careful and gentle, even though he flinches when his fingers brush against their cold carapace the slightest.

“Ah. I enjoy collecting their like, but there's little information to be gleaned of each.” That's why he doesn't look so happy with them like with the other relics? “Mind you, they do keep a nice shine about them and there's nothing wrong with appreciating something purely on aesthetic merits.”

So no translating. Still, Ghost does agree with that. Aesthetics, beauty caught in things physical… That's what art is, too, isn't it? If it is, it should be quite close to their slowly beating heart. To hold something of your own, to witness something of an another, there’s a certain charm in that.

“Do you have anything else for me? If not, get your damp little self out of my home.” The bug asks, snapping them out of their thoughts, pointing at the counter right in front of them where nine hundred Geo waits for them.

Reluctantly, they slide the Geo into their chest to rest with the others. They… They _do_ have some things more, but this should be enough of currency for now, they think. And what Lemm doesn't know, can’t hurt him, right?

So they shake their head a no.

A finger aggressively points to the door, making them tense up. “Then?”

Yeah yeah yeah, they are going, no reason to hurry them up even more. They wave their hand, anyway, as they make the short walk to the door and then out. They manage to hear Lemm scoff before the door shuts itself behind them, the bell ringing once more.

Well, that was certainly quick, wasn’t it? What else can they expect from the antisocial relic seeker, though.

’Clink!’ their nail’s tip buries itself into the tiles. Their back hits the wall a second later, near the elevator, and they slide down to the ground. So. How many Geo do they have now?

They count through it all. One, two, three, four hundred and then six hundred. Oh, they passed a thousand… Fourteen hundred, sixteen… Two thousand? That's a lot. Twenty two. Twenty two hundred Geo. That should be enough. Hopefully, at least? They steal a glance and a squint at their current blade. That one costed them two hundred and fifty.

...Yes. They should have more than enough.

... _Probably._

Next, they pull out their journal. Their own, not the hunter’s, this time. Ghost had decided to keep track of most of _everything_ they found about this kingdom that called out to them, that welcomed them with both open arms and weapon raised.

They flip through the pages, jump over the papers where notes about places and friendly bugs lie, until they finally get where they need to.

_The Pale King._

Two whole pages dedicated to only one being. Because _who_ was He? Why does the title ring a chime that seems to be buried so deep in their mind? Ghost doesn't understand. They don't like it when they don't understand something and so they make notes and pointers until they _ultimately_ figure it out.

Because, damn it- no secret is going to slip between their claws. They'll run from west to east and from south to north a million times if they have to. They'll figure it out.

The right page is dedicated mostly to pictures. They don't tend to do detailed somethings, it’s usually all small quick doodles done in the few minutes that they allow themself for rest. But this one… Probably one of their best work, they'll admit with some pride! And a small smile nobody will see, too. Because the King’s Idol staring back at them from the yellowing paper looks so pretty, with every engraving that the first Idol they had drawn on. Because, they thought, even those were too important to miss.

The left one is too barren for their taste. Just few short sentences, detailing or referencing the tablets in the King’s Pass and the Howling Cliffs, or what they managed to discover in Hallownest’s ruins.

Time to add something more, now!

It’s just another small sentence. The one about the third full moons, how His Light really did seem to make bugs smarter. Ghost wonders how. How a light can do something like that? How someone can _emit_ light, at all? Was He a god? Just like _the_ Light, that's orange and smells of sickly sweets and that the dead ones praise? Is it same? Is it different? Is it _same,_ but not? They don't know.

But they will find out! One day for sure, at least.

The book snaps closed and disappears in their darkness as they spring up to their feet and take their nail back. Well, it’s time to reforge and renew the blade. They should have everything now.

The Nailsmith is just a bit away, just few open canals filled with rainwater, infection and bodies, one small climb and they'll be right at his doorstep.

And so they make another walk.

The small hut overlooking the smaller part of the City of Tears feels homey, it feels warm in a sense that they can’t blame on the embers that always seem to dance inside it. They've come by too often, they think. Even when they never spoke, because they knew that no services could be provided to them without the pale ore, they still came back a few times.

It’s too lonely out here. And the song with clear rhythm of the Nailsmith’s hammer against the anvil calm their nerves so nicely… How can they not visit the kind, even if not talkative, bug?

Politely, with head slightly bowed, they enter. There’s no bell ringing here, only metal on metal.

The inside of the hut is _hot._ Alright, they'll admit it. But that won't stop them. The Nailsmith doesn't react to them coming in, too engrossed in his work.

Who is he fixing the nails for? Huh… Another question that needs a found answer. Ghost doesn't take any offense at getting ignored, though. They can quite understand, getting lost in one’s masterpieces.

Carefully, they approach and tap the bug’s carapace few times.

“Hmm? Oh, you've returned.” the smith’s voice is quite nice. It’s nicely deep and calm and so soft. The silence that he keeps probably keeps it so pristine. It carries a small surprise in it, as if he didn't expect them to ever come again.

Thinking of it- thinking of _outside-_ they can’t really blame that train of thought for steering that way. The rails are set for most bugs that visit this ruin, aren’t they.

Good thing they aren’t a bug, then.

“I see you have some Pale Ore.” Ghost eagerly nods, taking out the pale ore and showing it to the smith. He looks over it with a critical eye. “A rare, fine metal, that. Give me the ore and some Geo for my efforts, and I'll reforge your nail to make it stronger.”

Ghost could do a little dance, that's how happy they are about this progress.

“As you wish. I'll get to work then.”

They hand the ore to the Nailsmith and take out as many Geo as their little hands can carry at once. The bug stops them after eight hundred. Politely shaking his head with a claw raised to deny any more Geo. “Thank you, little one. But that shall be enough.”

...They don't quite agree, to be honest. The Nailsmith deserves more for his efforts. Who else would grant them the power to get through the agonies of this kingdom, if not him? Their nail means everything to them. It’s possibly the only thing that is so successfully keeping them alive without asking anything of them but skill. He should be asking for more.

When they give him their nail, when he dives into his work once again, they slide another two hundred Geo into the stash. A little secret that he might never notice.

Sparks fly from his anvil as the hammer meets their nail and the ore. Their nail disappears, changes, becomes something _more._ Something _stronger._ Something _deadlier._ Something that, held in the claws of a skilled warrior, will become incredible.

It will slash through chitin, it slash through bone white masks. It will pick at organs and smear flesh across walls and floors and maybe windows. It will strike through brains and hearts. It will _protect_ its wielder _beautifully._ It will grant power to them like never before.

How exciting, how exquisite, how…

Terrible. Horrifying. What a curse, what a curse; a sharp nail that kills in matter of minutes if not seconds. What a… What a petrifying curse.

They better not think of that. For that is a necessity. If _their_ nail won't murder, the _others’_ will. And they cannot let that happen, because there’s bugs waiting for them to come back. And they can’t handle disappointing them. It wouldn't be fair.

So for now they focus on the little embers, how beautifully they dance. How colorful and how joyous they are, just like fireworks that light up the skies in twilight in living, prospering kingdoms. What a sight to behold, what a sight to treasure forever.

Ghost focuses on the rhythm. Tink. Tink. Tink. And then some more, because the shape isn't right just yet. Tink. Tink. Tink. Such heavy sound, that seems to tug at their mind and play tag with their memories. Tink. Tink. Tink. The blade is almost done, another pretty sweet masterpiece. Tink. Tink. Tink. And a hiss of water. That's where every nail draws its first breath. In water. Somewhere, where they will never be able to breath. They suppose that they don't really need to, though. After all, the metal does it for them.

“There we go. The reforging is complete.”

What a wonder to hear.

The blade is heavier, now. But it still fits in their palm just as nicely as before. They give it a few swings, just to experiment with their new but also old weapon.

“I've added a channel to your nail. It should cut much more efficiently. You'll find it stronger than it used to be.” They can _already_ feel it- the power resting within it. What a _horror._

“Head out there and test its blade against your foes.” They will. There’s many veins they have to cut. So much hemolymph will be spilled, so much more _infection_ will be freed from the bodies that act as lovely prisons.

“If you bring me two pieces of Pale Ore, I can forge it into your nail and make it stronger still.” They shall remember that. For when they will be failing and faltering again, they will come back with two more. For another bigger fright, for another bigger dread, for another bigger, captivating, alluring _curse._

Ghost feels ready to take on the challenge again. They are ready to grant the so so wanted freedom to the lost kin hidden underneath the world.

* * *

It’s so much easier now.

The Balloons still burn away at the dream version of their cape and chitin. It still hurts. The broken vessel still manages to _pierce_ through and through them.

But that's alright.

Because they can tell, they can _feel._ They are getting closer and closer still! They are going to _make it,_ this time. They are going to win, they are going to-

Because their love won't let them leave. So they _have_ to-

And Ghost dies, for what they promise to be that last time. At least they now know how their heart beats, how it looks and how it stops. At least they now know that useless little information.

Once again, they get up from the dusty ground and once again they ignore the pulsing infection that seems to laugh at them. Their claws scrape against the tiles as anger takes them for maybe just a second. The snickers will stop soon enough.

The Dream Nail shines and it strikes through the corpse’s head.

The path down to the arena became so familiar to them that they no longer wait for the stones to appear, instead taking a shortcut after the one before, flapping their wings or clinging to the _very_ edge of a tiny _tiny_ platform to prevent themself from falling out of the other’s mind.

This is going to be the last battle. They _swear,_ it’s going to be the last one.

The dreams close off the gate behind them, signaling the beginning of the fight along with the scream of the fallen warrior.

Orange tears stream down their mask more than before. They have _enough._ They are _tired._ They are shattered in so many ways and they want to hurt and _inflict_ hurt no longer. They want to _die,_ they want to _pass away._ They want their well deserved rest and they beg Ghost to leave them be when their quick dash misses them only by few centimeters.

The rings and strings seem to gleam more, they seem to chime like bells from shops far above. Every little tinkle feels like a sharp little needle straight in the brain and it hurts to hear.

Those need to be cut. They have to be gone for good.

Ghost knows the steps to this dance now. They recognize the song that is led by the Goddess that dares not to challenge them head on. _Yet._

The lost kin attempts to cut their head off. They block it with precision, their new nail sings clearer than the wind. They fight against the other in power for a while till they hear a silent deceiving ’woosh’, a signal that a Balloon has spawned.

Quickly, quickly! They duck under the dusty blade, they slip underneath it and with a beautiful silver arc painted by their nail, they spin around and strike true- right into the other’s back, right above their wingbuds. That gives them enough time to deal with the Balloon, to pop it with a brush of the nail tip, while the lost kin stumbles for a while, leaning to the right dangerously, before they regain their balance again.

The Light cares not for their injuries, so of course it doesn't stop prompting them to just _try_ and cleave their nothingness in half, even when the not-corpse cries harder- when it clenches the handle of their nail with both of their hands so _so desperately-_ than before.

Even though it hurts, they turn around and bury that terrifying stare into Ghost’s own. How come it’s so intense? How _come it’s so familiar-_

Another clash of nails, another scrape of metal against metal. It makes their ears weep almost as much as the chime of the strings do. No matter, no matter. They'll _simply_ get through this.

They don't know- they can’t _tell_ how many times more had they twirled in place to avoid just one another dash. Or how many slashes had they gifted to the other’s wings, cloak, mask and chitin. How many Balloons had they popped? How many times had they managed to seal their injuries? They don't know. They didn't count.

They are _so_ much better now, they can see an attack coming from miles away, soon enough, that they almost never get hit. But why is it taking so long-

Finally, the dream version of the lost kin stills. After so long, Ghost ultimately wore both the vessel and the Goddess down, damaged the puppet enough. They take out the Dream Nail, they feel it awaken and glow soft violet in their hands.

With a jump, they cut the golden strings apart. Snap, snap and snap, all of them let go. The tinkling ceases, setting their brain free of agony just as the trapped one’s entirety. The other’s body falls to the ground with an empty thump.

And everything goes _dark_ not unlike stage lights at the end of a play.

It stays that way for a long while. Long enough for them to start thinking they've made a mistake. What if they just trapped themselves in something dead? Is there an escape from this? Are they forever hidden away in the nothingness of corpse’s psyche?

A street lamp innocently lights up. One, then second, then third and then some more. Made up Lumaflies flutter around in them. They are tinted blue. Greyish turquoise, maybe? Muted, soft. Ghost feels like sleeping just from looking around themselves and then it starts to _rain._

Mind’s version of rain doesn't really feel like water, they find. Well, it does, but it also doesn't. Everything negative seems to simply not be present. It’s cold, but not freezing. It makes soft sounds like the real deal, patter on the glass and iron of the lamps, on the stone of the ground underneath them and walls of buildings that aren’t really there. The wetness of it doesn't linger on their cloak, on their mask nor the membranes of their wings poking out from under the cloth of their cape.

And, what’s best, it doesn't make them _feel._ It doesn't prey after their emotions and doesn't ask them for answers for questions they do not understand.

And, after all the battling, the only fight they need to put up now, is the one against the quiet lull of it all. They can’t go to sleep just yet. Not just like that.

They look up and pause for a bit. In front of them sits a spectre- too tired to float above the ground. Just like theirs, though. It’s dark as the night, darker on some places and on some Soul shines, making them look like a sky full of stars. Scars, perhaps? Injuries? They are sorry for inflicting some of them…

This one has wings, too. And three horns. Just like their opponent probably should have had. So it’s theirs… Hopefully, they won't be aggressive towards them.

With the way their head leans to the left side, with their shoulders slumped down, they are probably too tired to fight. And too much in pain, too, judging by the involuntary jerks rocking their body.

Ghost gets up- they don't even know when they fell on their knees- and walks over, sits beside them, on their left side. The other startles, stares for a good while before leaning just a tad closer and inspecting them curiously. Ghost lets them, watches as tears stream down their cheeks. As long as their tendrils won't lash out, it’s okay.

Still, they speak up.

I'm not a threat anymore, I promise.

The shade flinches away and stares at them owlishly. _...Can….. talk..? Understand…..?_ they ask, hands speaking with them in a sign language Ghost doesn't know. Their voice is weak, so so tired and so very unsure. There’s hidden pain under it all, too. They are trying to keep it a secret just as they try to still their trembling hands.

Ghost tilts their head at them, before nodding. I can hear you, you don't need to sign.

_W…. What am I? What are you?_ the other looks at their arms as if they weren’t theirs. Stares at the hands that keep moving, probably out of strong habit. Have they really never seen their shade…? _What is this?_

Shrug is their only answer. I don't know. We are of the same species, though. We are kin, if you'd like to call it that., is the voiced variant. Genuinely, they have no idea. They aren’t a normal bug, that's for sure, they know that. Otherwise, though? They are just as smart as the shade next to them. They seem so incredibly surprised at the notion of kinship, but they relax some.

The shade looks around, stares at some of the dream particles that look so much like dream catchers. _We are in the Dream realm._ They keep signing or fidgeting with their hands. Ghost decides to leave them to it. It’s probably comforting to have something familiar, worth to do even if it might drain energy.

Yes., Ghost says to assure them. It wasn’t a question, but they might appreciate a word of another.

_Where is_ **_She_ ** _then._ There’s so much venom in that sentence. So much anger, disgust. But, curiously, no fear. They sound like they want to fight the Light god head on, even though they are so beat up. The other’s wings flutter and they bring them forwards, inspecting the golden rings piercing through the membranes. Then they stare at the bigger variants on their wrists and tug at the one around their neck. Those have yet to leave. _Where is She._

I banished her, at least for now…? I cut her puppet strings off, to free you. So you could rest., Ghost answers, their tone full of question. ...Don't you want to rest…?, they ask, unsure. Have they… Did they do something wrong? Is it wrong they freed the other?

The shade stares for a moment, looking all kinds of baffled. Then their eyes move with invisible smile and they softly chuckle while they shake their head. Ghost decides they like the sound of the other’s laughter. It sounds soft, kind, even if sharp. It sounds like a care of a close elder family member. It sounds like safety and they want to lean into the concept of it.

One of the four wings moves over them, covers their head. It feels like some sort of hug but less personal. It feels reassuring. _Rest is never the option when you love someone, little one._ Huh? _But you've done nothing wrong, do not fret. It is quite alright, I suppose._

What do you mean? By rest never being an option, I guess. Did you choose this for yourself?, they are confused, to be honest. Gently, they paw at the wing, nudging it backwards just a tiny bit so they can look at the lost kin. They tilt their head to other side, still holding onto the membrane.

_Hmm, my kin is kind of a cute little thing, aren’t they._ The shade whispers, muses, before sighing and looking over the made up street their mind constructed to give them a familiar space to exist in. _In a way, yes. I've chosen the strings, not the capture._

_I've been buried underneath the Light for ages I haven't bothered to count._ **_Her_ ** _feathers have been weighing me, pinning my own wings down, ever since_ **_Her_ ** _voice first brushed against my mind, small one. I've been hopeless for oh so long. All I could do was sit, weep Soul till I ran dry and feel myself rotting and_ **_burning._ ** They shudder and Ghost somehow feels the same. Their limbs suddenly itch and hurt as if _they_ experienced such horrors. Absentmindedly they scratch at their forearms, feeling as if parasites tried to bury in their flesh and eat them from the inside.

The lost kin perks up a bit as they continue. _Then, one day, a call rang through the orange angry skies, over the clouds. It was clear and divine, but also not. It was a screech that carried the same pain, same_ **_suffering_ ** _as my mind bore for longer than it could dare to remember. It sung of wishes for help, it begged and it plead and it wept just like me._ The kin looks at them, studies their unchanging face for a bit. _It pulled on my heart. Maybe because it had reminded me of something long lost to my memory._

_So I've decided to do but just a simple thing. To help a stranger out, to whom I felt such kinship. To turn around and sink my claws into the shining feathers and_ **_tear them out one by one._ ** Ghost completely believes they could do something like that.

Right now, the shade is probably on their lowest. They are destroyed. They are shivering from the hurt piled on their entire being over the decades and _yet._ They still carry the energy of someone so incredibly strong. Their claws jerk as if they wanted to find godly flesh which they could shred again. The lost kin sort of reminds them of Hornet, in a way they can’t really put words to. Their stare is so intense, still so determined to _keep going, to fight till the end and then even after that._ They think the terror they've felt whenever that stare bore into them during the battles was very justified.

_As long as I’d be able to, that is. Divine power is still divine and no matter how much power you think you harbor, it will crush you down one day._ Their mind’s voice changes from determined one to sober. So horribly aware of the situation they caught themself in.

_My hurting_ **_at least_ ** _doubled. I like to believe the stranger’s lessened at least by a bit, though. Her attention was on me, She had to restrain me and I made sure to put up as long and as difficult fight as possible. I kindly hope the stranger managed to catch their breath while I battled._ Ghost has a guess as to who this stranger might be, but they keep quiet. They keep listening to the shade’s tale, watching as their expressions change, because their dark infested souls have such gift unlike their living shells. It is a wonder above wonder, in a way, to watch similar features change without any malice behind them.

_She hung me like a puppet by golden rings and strings which burned so much worse than Her presence. I keep-_ they pause and look at the cut strings dangling off of the rings, without a move that isn't inflicted by them. They slightly frown. _I_ **_kept_ ** _pulling on them, even when all the strength I had left started to evaporate in Her warmth. Because I had to help. They needed a relief, at least for a little while. Maybe it even helped my close friend. ...I hope it did._

They shake their head and look back at them. _Tell me, kid, why? Why have you decided to stop me and Her? To… “save” me?_

Ghost just shrugs again. At first it was a simple goal to get somewhere new, to explore. They claimed wings from that. The same wings now itch at the roots under their cloak. Should… have they simply left? Was the power of flight worth it? They tell themself that yes. It was.

The second fight… It was _compassion._ It was the need to give calm to a kin. Love, perhaps? Maybe it was even love. Instead of sharing the reasons they've come up with, they ask: What killed you?

The shade squints at them, suspicious of the question. Ghost sincerely hopes that wasn’t a rude thing to ask. Or that they'll be mad about how they keep avoiding answering the lost kin’s questions while still asking their own.

_Stupidity, ignorance._ They say and Ghost heaves a quiet sigh of relief. They won't be angry. _Love, so much love._ _An argument that was born out of love._ A w- the lost kin is quick to keep talking. _A heavy blade._

For a bit, both of them stay silent. Then Ghost leans heavily against them. They startle, again, but don't push them away. Ghost has no idea why is it so comforting to be around them. Logically, they are talking to a complete stranger.

Then again, was anybody else they've met on this adventure any better? Quirrel is the same. So is Elderbug, Myla, Mato or Sheo. Maybe it’s because this shade is the first member of their own species they've ever met. It is a special kind of bond, they suppose, to have someone so same they can sit with.

I don't think you deserved it., they say just as two wings settle over their back like delicate blankets. They are slightly warm to the touch, just as the shade, which is more than unnerving in their case. But they are slowly cooling down. Which is good, which is great.

The lost kin silently chuckles again. It’s so playful, it’s so nice to hear. It sounds like home they never truly had that they crave so much, even though they know a sadness slumbers behind the laughter. _Pray tell, how do you know, little one? You don't even know half of the tale._

Then why don't you share?

That seems to take them aback. Such suggestion... and for a bit they just stare. Before they heave a sigh and rest their face in their right hand before moving it away to sign to accompany their words again. _No time. There’s no time. That's why. The dead shouldn’t be able to speak at all, you know? I'm quite certain I am_ **_very_ ** _dead. I might be thrice dead by now, thinking of it. Maybe even four… Perhaps five…?_

The dead possess most of the stories lost to reality, though., Ghost counters. Because they are right. Who else can tell them about experiences of the lost kin if not their own voided soul? They want to ask about _everything._ Do you remember where we come from? Why aren’t voices granted to us? I’d love to sing, but I cannot... How come you've grown so? How long have you lived? Who’s the close friend you've mentioned? Can you teach me how to fly? The wind seems to not want me… Those are questions they would have spoken, among other things, if they could.

The other’s answer is what stops them, for the better part. _That does not matter to the rules of life. I've already said much. I grow weary even more. And I assume you are a traveller, at least by heart. You have places to be, for sure. Someone to wander to, perhaps? Maybe they wait for you to tell them of your love- you never know- and you might be delaying such important thing by sitting with me._

Would you like me be gone so badly?

_Not necessarily, no. It’s more beautiful than the stars at their brightest to have someone so dear near me again._ The lost kin gives them another hidden smile even as their whole being trembles weakly, as they slowly sink down to the ground. _We have our battles ahead of ourselves, though. Present flows, past grows and future waits. You shouldn’t ignore any of them or else you might miss something._ They lecture Ghost kindly as they softly caress them between their horns. They lean into the touch. And they guess the shade might be right.

Don't you want to live, too? I could try to find a way-

_I do, I do. And I know how I might be able to come back. It’s not the time, yet, however. I think I'm better off- more useful- here. No matter how much it hurts all the time._

Don't say that! Nobody should be trapped in a dream! In such torture chamber!

_Mhm, so I agree. The stranger is still lost in one, though._

I think I know who you speak of. And I'm working on freeing them! You have nothing to worry about!, Ghost puffs up their chest, proud of the gigantic burden they so willingly decided to carry. They are already so far, they can feel the end of their goal on their claw tips.

The lost kin does not seem so sure, though. They look more concerned than anything. _Are you certain, little one?_ They say, with first speck of fear staining the words.

Yes! Yes, yes, yes!, Ghost spins around on their knees and takes hold of the other’s hand with both of theirs. I can promise! I can swear! Please, you can rest now!

They seem to think it through. Long and hard. Their gaze flies from Ghost to the street lamps to a random puddle and the tiny waves the raindrops create in it. Finally, reluctantly, they nod and Ghost wishes their smile would show like the lost kin’s. They take their hand back to sign again. _Okay, fine. I’ll believe you if you so insist._

This might be the best victory so far. They will make sure to not fail them. They won't fail neither them, the Hollow Knight, Hornet nor the world. They _won't_ and they promise.

Ghost stands up.

The Lumaflies are starting to fall asleep, dimming the street down, slowly and surely. The rain lessens to only few drops falling here and there. The mind’s dark sky has no more tears to cry, they suppose. The other’s wings fall down to the floor, no longer strong enough to hold themselves over their head as an umbrella or cover them as a comforting blanket. They have one more question to ask, though. They need the answer, so they can carry the shade’s memory with them, to keep them alive.

What is your name? Did you have one?, they ask the shade that's starting to fall asleep.

_Mmmm…_ they hum only at first, too tired to think fast. _I've had many a name. Never a truly real one, I guess? All were more of titles, I'd say. Silence, Quiet, the expressionless… Kid or a clumsy little oaf to my mentor.,_ They lightly chuckle at those memories.

_I was gifted one that I hold close to my heart, one that I would call my own and only, actually._ They seem to remember suddenly. _But that one is hers, too. It’s hers, for me. I believe she’s the only one that has the right to tell you of our secret. Till then, make of me what you will. Call me what you wish._

Ghost nods. They'll remember them as the lost kin- the first one they've ever found, they've ever talked to- because broken vessel is too sad of a name.

Lumaflies fall asleep along with the shade. Finally, they get to rest without the sun scorching their soul or pulling on golden blazing strings connected to their very life. Last raindrop finds its way into a crack in one of the countless stones.

And everything goes dark not unlike stage lights at the end of a play.

Ghost awakes on the dusty tiles of the arena, to the sound of god’s heartbeat coming from the orange pustules, no longer laughing, in front of the corpse of the other.

They sit and look up. There’s a soul staring and them, waiting for them. Ghost bows their head down. In respect, in thanks, in promise. The soul bows back before breaking apart into dream particles.

The Dream nail glows stronger, more fiercely, from where it rests hung on their belt. Its shine made out of thoughts and fantasies will guide them to their goal.

They know. They know for sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AFTER MONTH AND A HALF I RETURN TO THIS- THIS TOOK LONGER THAN THE FUCKIN BIRTH OF THE FIRST EVER STAR HOLY *SHIT*
> 
> Also yes, when I played through hk for the first time, I got stuck on the Lost Kin fight for five hours before FINALLY deciding to say fuck it and get the channeled nail. Thanks to me sucking at gaming and kazooing yeomanly, we have 11.4k words of this bullshit.
> 
> The last part- the convo with Broken- has been done for like. A *month.* I just couldnt get through the middle and OH does it feel good to have it done. Im even quite happy with how this turned out!
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed

**Author's Note:**

> Our kid is finally here and this is how Im welcoming them into the WonWan fics, like I kinda feel bad but also how the fuck else would I-
> 
> Anyway, yall have NO idea how long I wanted to write this I HAD FUN while sobbing so its all GOOD,, Their fight is quite different from canon, bc Im p sure WonWan!Broo and canon!Broo have very much different pasts. Our lil bastard child grew up with Netty of all people, they gon be dangerous. Also they are a main character so they get the main protag BuffTM


End file.
